


The Normandy Ambush

by obstinate_as_an_allegory



Series: Troublesome Witness [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Inseparables, War Stories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 16:36:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4270359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinate_as_an_allegory/pseuds/obstinate_as_an_allegory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of 'Friends in High Places', Constance and d’Artagnan conspire to get stories out of the Inseparables.</p>
<p>Three years earlier: an ambush leads to conflict between the musketeers and the nobleman they’re supposed to be guarding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Normandy Ambush

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working for a while on a follow-up to Friends in High Places; the result is a slightly odd mix: a couple of scenes dealing more-or-less directly with the aftermath, and an extended version of the anecdote Porthos tells Constance in chapter 7 of the previous story.

There are different versions of the story of what happened in Normandy. In the Garrison it usually takes the form of ‘that time Athos threatened to murder the king’s cousin.’ D’Artagnan has heard two different versions of it, neither of them told by a musketeer who was there at the time, both embellished with elaborate and imaginative threats of extreme violence. Athos himself, when questioned, insists that any threat was merely _implied_.

The Captain remembers the diplomatic nightmare afterwards, the royal cousin in question’s correspondence with the Cardinal and the _headaches_ it caused, but mostly his own outrage at how cheap his men’s lives were sometimes to their superiors. Afterwards, he remembers very quietly congratulating Athos on taking a course of action he, himself, could not. Nobody else has ever heard Tréville’s take on it, nor will they.

 Porthos hates that story. He just remembers rain, and horror. Aramis doesn’t really remember it at all.

 

 

*

 

 

Constance slept one night in d’Artagnan’s room at the Garrison, because she was exhausted and fragile and she needed to, a moment of weakness which went unremarked by the others. After that, she did return to her husband’s house for a few days, during which he avoided her as if she were toxic. He was out nearly all day, and he slept in the chair in the kitchen at night. It was ridiculous, but it suited her fine. Before a week had passed, Constance received an invitation from the Queen, and a day later she moved her meagre belongings into a tiny apartment in the palace. In no time at all, she would hardly recognise her life from before.

She’s still married, of course, so they have to be careful. But it’s not too difficult, every now and then, to meet d’Artagnan for a walk in the palace gardens. She suspects that the Queen is fully aware of their attachment, and deliberately sends Constance on missions to fetch a herb or cut a flower for her rooms and insists, every time, that she take a musketeer escort.

Today, they walk on some such spurious errand, slow and thoughtful in the late spring sunshine. It’s bright enough today that the nightmares of darkness and woods seem far enough from Constance for her to talk tentatively about what happened.

‘I’ve been dreaming about it,’ she confesses, squinting down at the fountains across the lawn. ‘Not because… not because of Jacques. Just… It’s silly. Just the dark, really, and being on my own.’

When she shoots a surreptitious look at him sideways he looks as if he wants to apologise but is biting it back. ‘You don’t ever have to be on your own again,’ he says, soft and ardent, and she smiles.

‘I wasn’t, really. You all had my back, and Aramis was there. But you know what dreams are like.’

D’Artagnan listens and is silent for a long moment, eyes on the stone cherub at the end of the path. ‘It should have been me helping you. I should never have let how I felt about your husband prevent my being there for you.’

She blinks in surprise. ‘I didn’t give you the opportunity. Because I thought… it wasn’t because I didn’t think you would help,’ she assures him, touching him gently on the arm. ‘It was because part of me thought I was doing you wrong by going at all.’ He stares at her and she feels herself blush. ‘It doesn’t make sense, I know. I wasn’t thinking very clearly.’

He strokes her arm absently, eyes still distant. Then he says, jaw locked tight, ‘I’m glad Aramis was there, at least.’

Constance frowns, because she doesn’t _think_ he worries about this and if he does he’s an idiot. Gently, she says ‘I believe I am the only woman in Paris Aramis _doesn’t_ flirt with. And that includes the toothless landlady at the Wren, and the Queen herself.’

He laughs, startled. ‘No, I know. He’s not fool enough to try it, with you.’

She grins, mood lifting. ‘And what does that make you, then?’

His hands come to rest lightly on her waist as he meets her eye; they’re shielded from the windows by hedges here. ‘A fool,’ he says. ‘A complete fool.’

As they walk slowly back, neither of them hurrying, she finds herself telling him about it properly at last. Mostly she remembers the press of the dark like a weight on her face, and she’d not meant to tell him about the fight with Jacques, it makes his jaw clench again, but it does feel better to tell it. He makes her feel that she was not, after all, stupid and cowardly to be so shaken by it.

‘You’re so brave, Constance,’ he keeps saying. ‘You’re extraordinary.’

‘I’m not,’ she insists, despite the warm feeling it conjures in her chest, ‘I wasn’t. I was almost too frightened to move. And I didn’t know if Aramis was even still _alive_ , and I couldn’t…’ 

‘He was fine,’ he reminds her when her voice cracks, and she smiles.

‘I know. It’s silly, he’s a grown man, but he can be so _stupidly_ brave.’ She pokes him gently in the ribs. ‘Just like you, actually. And,’ she adds, smiling ruefully, ‘I had promised Porthos to look after him.’

D’Artagnan laughs softly.

‘Would it help if I promised you that both of us will try our best not to get ourselves killed?’ 

‘Not remotely,’ she says haughtily. ‘I know what you’re like.’

She thinks about the night in the woods, and about everything that happened afterwards, and she’s starting to feel at peace. She takes a breath to settle herself, and then goes on in a more conversational tone.

‘Porthos told me a story about an ambush in Normandy, he said… I think, three years ago. Before either of us knew them.’

D’Artagnan looks up in surprise. ‘I know that story. The time Athos threatened to kill the king’s cousin.’

‘What?’ She’s laughing. ‘I don’t think it’s the same one. _Athos_? I don’t believe it.’

‘It’s true! I’ve heard it from two different men. They don’t entirely agree on the details, but…’

 ‘He told you this himself?’

 ‘Who?’

 ‘Athos.’

 D’Artagnan shakes his head ruefully. ‘No. He doesn’t really answer questions about the past. Another musketeer told me. Someone was wounded when a convoy was ambushed in Normandy and the Comte they were guarding wouldn’t stop so they could tend him. And Athos threatened him with a sword, right in front of the captain, and forced him out of his own carriage.’

 Constance blinks. ‘ _Athos_?’ she says again. It sounds most unlikely. She thinks about Athos’ implacable stare; of the four of them he’s the one she has known the longest but also in some ways the one she knows least well. Is it really possible that Athos could let his control slip far enough to threaten someone with a sword, and a Comte, no less?

 She looks up, feeling energised and a little devious. ‘D’Artagnan, we need to get to the bottom of this.’

-/-

‘Did you have a pleasant afternoon?’ Aramis asks, passing her a glass of wine and grinning wolfishly at her. She pokes him in the ribs because he deserves it, but accepts the wine.

‘The palace gardens are very fine,’ she says primly, tipping her chin up, and he laughs as if this deflection is a fine joke.

 ‘And did you and d’Artagnan talk about…’

 She’s blushing, but still stubborn, ‘We talked about you, in fact.’

 He groans theatrically and shoots a mournful look across the table at d’Artagnan. ‘D’Artagnan, I despair of you. You do not take a lady for a walk in the gardens to discuss another man, even if it’s me.’

 Porthos is stifling laughter in his glass, and Athos is smirking as he says, ‘Shut up, Aramis. Leave the boy alone.’

 ‘He was telling me what a reckless idiot you are,’ Constance says, flustered but imperious.

 Aramis claps a hand to his breast as if wounded. ‘Accused of recklessness by _d’Artagnan_. This is slander indeed.’

 Constance thumps him lightly on the arm, after a moment’s consideration to be sure that this is not the arm he was recently shot in. ‘There’s no denying it. Porthos told me about that time in Normandy.’

 Aramis glances around, surprised. ‘You’re telling tales on me too, now, _mon ami_?’ Porthos salutes him with his glass, grinning. ‘What time in Normandy?’

 Groans from Porthos and Athos. ‘You wouldn’t remember. You were ogling a Comte’s wife for the first half and sleeping for the second,’ says Porthos, and there’s a slight edge to his voice like he doesn’t like the way the conversation’s going.

 Emboldened by Constance’s success, d’Artagnan joins in. ‘Is this the same time in Normandy that Athos threatened to murder the king’s cousin?’

 ‘He was not the king’s cousin,’ Athos murmurs.

 Constance exchanges a glance with d’Artagnan. ‘So it was the same occasion?’ d’Artagnan says cautiously, as if he’s worried Athos will snap, or leave, or firmly change the subject.

 ‘He was no one important,’ Athos says, as though still defending his own murderous intentions. ‘The road was dangerous at that time, and there was little going on in Paris so the king granted a musketeer escort to anyone who brought him a decent gift and paid their taxes.’

Constance, feeling smug, settles into the bench and takes a sip of wine. Why did d’Artagnan think it was so difficult to get stories out of them? This is easy.

 ‘And you _did_ threaten to kill him?’ d’Artagnan asks, incredulous, and Athos closes his mouth with a snap, frowning but more thoughtful than irritated.

 ‘I doubt it. Not in so many words. It may have been implied.’

 Porthos shrugs. ‘You drew your sword and got in his face. It was _implied_ pretty loud and clear.’

 ‘Why? What did he say to you?’ d’Artagnan asks, breathless.

 Athos shrugs and refills his wine glass.

 ‘How long ago was it? Did Tréville see you? Etienne told me it was right in front of the captain but I think he was exaggerating. What had he done to offend you?’

 Athos drinks deeply, still frowning, and Constance leans forward, unable to contain herself. ‘If d’Artagnan promises not to ask any more questions, will you tell us what actually happened?’ she pleads, glancing at each of them in turn.

Athos and Porthos look at each other. Porthos looks, perhaps uneasily, at Aramis, who shrugs. ‘I know the time you mean. But I don’t remember enough of it to make a good story.’

‘Alright,’ Porthos says at last. ‘Imagine the most miserable road in France after four days of rain.’

 

 

***

 

 

The road is blurred grey with mud, and the carriage, containing some miscellaneous minor nobility who have been granted a musketeer escort because the king was feeling particularly generous that day, will get stuck if this continues to get worse.

Far enough behind to talk without being overheard, Porthos mutters something unflattering out of the corner of his mouth. Aramis grins widely, shameless as always, and Athos tries to keep his own face expressionless.

‘Such _language_ when you’re talking about the king’s second cousin, Porthos,’ Aramis baits him slyly.

‘He’s a fat useless old bastard, and it’s no fucking weather for this shit. And Normandy’s a shithole,’ Porthos obliges grumpily. Athos sympathises. If the rain would let up this mission might have its appeal, if only for getting them out of Paris for a few days, but the downpour has set in firmly and shows no signs of abating.

‘Not all of Normandy is a shithole. Honfleur is said to be beautiful,’ Aramis says, smiling despite the rain that pours off the brim of his hat when he looks up. ‘And the Comtesse is very gracious.’

His smile is wolfish, and Athos groans at him. ‘Oh, indeed? What led you to this conclusion?’

Aramis laughs. ‘She has a kind face,’ he says.

‘Dunno what you see in those pampered court ladies,’ Porthos grunts. ‘They’re nothing but powder and lace. Nothing under the surface at all.’

‘There’s always something under the surface,’ Aramis says, and it sounds like he’s being philosophical from his tone, but then he grins again. ‘You just need to get better at undressing them, _mon ami_.’

Athos groans, and Porthos flicks water at him, which makes very little difference, soaked as all of them are already.

-/-

It’s mid-afternoon when they notice the footprints off the edge of the road into the trees. It could be nothing, but Porthos heads up the column to let Tréville know and of course it’s then that shots ring out. Porthos tugs his pistol out of his jacket where it has been tucked in the hope of keeping the powder dry, and aims at the first shape he sees between the trees, hearing gunshots and yells as the other musketeers respond.

‘Captain!’ he yells to the front of the column, though Tréville is already wheeling in the saddle, and he hears Athos and Aramis shout something as they spur forwards. 

He’s on one side of the carriage, close to the ditch, when the horse tilts crazily. He flails to regain the reins he dropped in favour of his weapons, but the horse doesn’t right itself, and he rolls heavily onto the ground. There’s a man swinging a sword at him as he comes back to his feet, and he meets the thrust clumsily, still off-balance, following it with a hefty shove to give himself space before the next attack.

He fumbles his sword up, pressing forward hard, and gets his back to the carriage in time to meet another man coming at him from the other side. He can vaguely hear one of the noble women talking excitedly from inside. There’s no time for the distraction. He’s bruised from when his horse went down, and there isn’t really space for Porthos’ preferred style of brawling on the strip of road between the carriage and the ditch. He manages to kick one of his attackers back, and it’s then that he sees the third man across the ditch. With no other option – his pistol is empty – he throws his main gauche, but it doesn’t connect because the bastard chooses that moment to leap down and start clambering up to join the fray and he’s left with just his sword and surrounded on three sides and the quiet part of his mind that isn’t wholly swallowed up with the battle thinks, _damn_. 

Behind him, he hears someone – Aramis, it’s always Aramis – yell his name in a panic, and Athos shouting ‘what are you _doing_?!’ He ignores both, focusing on swinging the sword fast enough – it’s a good sword, it suits him well but it’s too heavy for multiple opponents with this little space. He’s locked in combat with one man and he can _see_ the other one’s blade moving in but he’s not going to be able to turn fast enough. 

The carriage thumps heavily behind him as if someone’s crashed against it, and _then_ there’s a wordless bellow over his head and something swings down beside him, managing to kick one of the attackers in the head on his way down.

He hardly needs to look, he’d know the ring of that sword anywhere and in any case, he only knows one person mad enough to pull a stunt like that.

‘Did you just _jump off the fucking roof_?’ Porthos shouts between thrusts, dizzy with how close he just came to getting fatally stabbed.

Aramis shoots him a smile as if it’s _hilarious_ , leaping straight into the middle of a four-way battle; Porthos will kill him for it later if he lives that long. Fighting back to back comes naturally, though, and with two of them - Aramis still holding his empty pistol in his left hand and using it as a club – the bandits go down pretty fast.

Both of them are left panting. Porthos spins to check that Athos and Tréville and the others are all intact, which they seem to be, and then turns back to Aramis still giddy with shock. He’s bent forward with his hands on his knees, but he lifts his head to grin at him.

Porthos seizes him by the shoulder, none too gently. ‘You mad bastard,’ he croaks. ‘Even for _you_ that was insane.’

Aramis huffs a laugh and starts to straighten, looking amused and not remotely apologetic, but his muscles align wrong and he stops, frowns, and then very suddenly pitches to his knees.

‘Hey –‘

He’s hunched over with a hand to his ribs, and between the mud and the rain it takes Porthos a moment; Aramis just looks puzzled.

‘Did he cut you?’

‘I don’t think –‘

When Aramis finally moves his hand it is _vivid_ with blood, and he stares at it for a blank moment like he still doesn’t understand how it got there.

‘Shit,’ says Porthos, grabbing the bloody hand by the wrist before Aramis can cover the wound again. He bends to look, parts the torn edges of his friend’s doublet very carefully with his fingers. It’s too bloody to see the wound very clearly, and then the remaining strength goes out of Aramis’ legs and he lists to one side. Porthos braces him with one arm and yells ‘ _Athos!_ ’ into the rain, struggling to prop Aramis up as he squirms. Athos looks round startled from his conversation with Tréville and his eyebrows shoot up.

Aramis has a fistful of Porthos’ jacket in one hand and he’s shaking. ‘Thought he missed,’ he gasps out, still looking more surprised than pained or afraid. Porthos is afraid enough for both of them.

Athos crouches beside them, face unreadable. ‘What happened?’ 

‘He’s hurt,’ Porthos says shortly, gripping Aramis by the shoulder. Athos nods, tight-mouthed, and his eyes flick over them, no doubt detecting the blood now mingling in the mud beneath them.

‘Aramis?’ he asks tersely. ‘Is it bad?’

Aramis blinks at him dazedly before he throws an unsteady glance down at his own chest. He’s breathing shakily, and he squeezes his eyes closed before answering. ‘I can’t – tell,’ he mutters, more unsettled than Porthos has seen him in a long time. His face has drained very pale.

Athos stares for a moment and then cranes around to look at Tréville, who has one eye on them as he stands by the carriage window conversing with the Comte.

‘We have to get him out of the rain,’ he says, voice still flat and calm to anyone who knew him less well than Porthos, who can hear the edge to it.

He grunts agreement, still in the process of trying to prop Aramis up in order to unlace his doublet. Aramis has an arm braced against his shoulder to stay sitting more-or-less upright in an ungraceful sprawl in the mud, his head hanging forwards so his face is only partly visible through his dripping hair. His eyes are wide and shocked, now, as the battle rush starts to leach out of all of them and they feel the aches and the cold and the damp; he exhales harshly through his mouth.

‘Here –‘ Athos says, leaning down to help them manoeuvre. ‘Press on the wound. Don’t undress him yet, he’ll just get cold.’

Aramis doesn’t make a sound as he’s manhandled to sit with his back to Porthos’ side. His lips are pressed tightly together but when Porthos clamps a hand over the bloody hole in his doublet he can’t stifle a strangled moan in his throat.

‘I’m going to tell the captain.’ Athos grasps one of Aramis’ hands briefly, looking him in the eye. ‘Stay here. Stay awake, understand?’

Aramis grimaces. ‘Yes,’ he croaks, blinking. He’s a cold, tense weight against Porthos’ side, not trying to move any more but still shaking and the breath heavy in his lungs. It’s bad, Porthos has seen enough to know; if he’s gone quiet like this it must be bad. Athos rakes his inscrutable eyes over the pair of them once more and then he stands and stalks off.

-/-

‘Captain.’ 

Tréville looks up immediately. The ambush has left their charges angry and frightened, and musketeers are still investigating the numbers they’ve felled in the trees, but he’s had half an eye on Athos, Porthos and Aramis, dread creeping into his bones because they haven’t been helping with the fight’s aftermath and something is wrong there.

Athos steps near to him, squinting against the rain. 

‘Aramis is wounded,’ he says flatly, and Tréville wishes he could be wrong once in a while. ‘We need to get him out of this weather so we can see how badly.’

The road to Le Havre is long and muddy at this time of year, and the last inn was an hour’s ride back the way they came.

‘Is he conscious?’ he asks, matching Athos’ calm tone.

‘Yes. But he’s not going to be able to ride.’

Tréville nods, clenching his jaw. ‘Let me see what I can do,’ he says shortly. ‘Help Porthos.’

Athos gives him a searching look but he nods smartly and steps back, striding over to the edge of the road where his two comrades are huddled uncomfortably on the ground.

Tréville sighs to himself before he makes for the carriage window. The Comte is badly shaken by the ambush but choosing to cover this with ill humour, and their last conversation consisted of accusations of incompetence which he bore stony-faced. Needs must, however.

‘Monsieur le Comte,’ he calls gruffly, knocking smartly on the carriage door. The shutter slides back and his paunchy face glares out; his pale wife and elderly mother are just visible in the gloom behind him.

‘Captain. Have you found the source of the attack?’

‘Not yet, Monsieur. My men are investigating.’

‘Then I’ll thank you to-‘

‘I must ask for your help. One of my men has been wounded whilst defending you and your family.’ It’s not subtle, but the reminder does no harm and Tréville is not above such tactics if it might mean a man’s life. ‘We would like to move him into the carriage in order to tend his wound.’

The Comte leans back slightly as if in disgust, his eyes raking over the muddy, soaked musketeers still moving around them, though Aramis and his friends are out of his view. ‘In the carriage?’ he asks faintly, glancing around himself as though he has only just realised he has one.

‘Yes, Monsieur. He needs tending out of the rain.’ 

He leans back in disgust. ‘We couldn’t… I’m afraid that is impossible. My wife and mother would be upset by the blood.’

Tréville clenches his jaw. ‘I am sorry to cause offence,’ he grates out, teeth aching with holding back his reaction. ‘But this is urgent.’

‘There is not enough space. And the drapery is costly; not to mention, well. My wife. Her health is delicate and she must not be upset.’

Tréville seethes. If he leans back just slightly he can see where three of his best men are hunched in the mud, Athos leaning over Aramis to shield him from the rain with his own body, hands on the injured man’s chest; Porthos with one hand pushing Aramis’ hair off his forehead, muttering to him where he sits with his head tilted back onto Porthos’ shoulder, breathing panicked at the sky and rain on his face like tears. 

He weighs up the cost of offending a minor royal cousin against the injustice and waste of losing Aramis to a mission as trivial as this one.  ‘It is an emergency, Monsieur. I must insist.’

The Comte grimaces in horror. ‘My final word, Captain!’ he snaps, and tries to slam the shutter closed, but Tréville without really thinking catches it with his hand. Before either of them can speak Athos is back at his shoulder, composure fraying.

‘This is taking too long, Captain. We’ll lose him.’

‘I won’t have him in here! The blood will offend my wife!’ the Comte shrieks, and, startled, Athos turns to glare at him, the full force of his glare. This Comte has no authority to match what Athos was born with, Tréville thinks with some satisfaction.

 ‘My friend,’ he says very steadily, ‘was saying just this morning how kind and gracious he believes your wife to be, Monsieur. It is a shame she finds the blood he sheds in her defence so distressing.’

 ‘Now then,’ the Comte splutters, shakily. ‘See here, I’m sorry for the fellow. But you must see that…’

 He falters into silence, and Athos just raises his eyebrows inquiringly and waits.

‘It is impossible,’ he finishes weakly.

Athos’ face is stony, but he’s too impatient to put the Comte in his place. ‘We’re bringing him over,’ he says flatly. ‘You and your wife are welcome to stand in the rain while we are using the carriage, Monsieur.’ He looks at Tréville briefly, jaw clenched tight, and marches off. The Comte gapes after him.

 For a few moments the Comte is too stunned by this utter disregard for his authority to react: Athos and Porthos take the opportunity to get the door open and push right past him.

It is far from ideal. By the time Porthos and Athos have hoisted Aramis onto the carriage floor and out of the rain he is half-conscious, panting with his eyes screwed closed, and the three of them leak puddles of blood-tinted water onto the mahogany. The aristocrats huddle at one end, feet lifted off the floor, and despite the Comte’s insistence that they would find the sight upsetting, all three of them stare at Aramis like a grotesquery at the circus, fascinated and disgusted by the blood drenching his shirt and the helpless way his back arches under his friends’ hands.

There isn’t really enough room, that part was true: Porthos is scrunched against the side of the carriage with Aramis’ head in his lap and Athos crouches by his legs, leaning precariously over him to get to the injury. Tréville stands in the rain and watches through the open door, which Aramis’ boots are hanging out of.

 When Athos peels back his doublet and the soaked shirt, the wound is laid bare. A nasty slash across the ribs, difficult to tell how deep from where Tréville stands but the sight makes his throat feel tight. No commanding officer likes to see the damage wrought by his orders on his men’s bodies, and though he would never admit to it, despite Aramis’ propensity for recklessness he has, since even before Savoy, always thought of him as a survivor.

Athos soaks the wound in brandy and Aramis’ eyes fly open with a gasp; he snatches blindly at the Comtesse’s skirts and she shrieks, jerking them away from him. Aramis blinks at her as if confused as to where he is and why she’s here, and mumbles an apology. Porthos doesn’t glance at her, silent and stormy-eyed as he gently gives Aramis his own hand to grip instead.

The wound won’t stop bleeding, and Athos’ jaw is clenched hard as he presses a cloth to it and blood soaks through.

‘You haven’t heard the last of this,’ the Comte hisses at Tréville, glancing uneasily back and forth between the window and the bloody operation taking place at his feet. ‘I will take my complaint to the very highest level. This is intolerable.’

Tréville nods mildly. ‘We will get you and your family safely to Le Havre, my lord. That was our mission.’

‘My property has been damaged!’ the Comte shrieks, gesturing frantically at the bloodstains on his wife’s skirts. His voice gets louder and more shrill with every complaint, and Athos has his teeth gritted in a furious effort to ignore him, but even in his hazy state Aramis is squinting worried up at the argument going on above him.

‘The King will hear of your men’s insubordination, Captain; the King and the Cardinal, too!’

‘Is it… what’s – is something wrong?’ Aramis mutters, forcing the words painfully through his teeth.

‘S’alright, Aramis,’ Porthos assures him, glowering at the Comte. ‘Not your problem.’

The Comte raps his cane sharply against the floor. ‘I want these men out of my carriage, Captain!’

Aramis moans at the knocking so close to his head, and Porthos tenses, if possible, even more.

The Comtesse tugs gently at her husband’s sleeve. ‘Gilles, perhaps…’ she begins, but he cuts her off. 

‘No! I am in charge here and I _order_ you –‘ he stands, mid sentence, as if to reinforce the extra height he has over Tréville from the carriage - ‘to remove these men from my carriage this instant.’

He prods Aramis with his foot for emphasis, as if there were any doubt as to which men he means, and the wounded man’s breath hitches. Athos is in his face in seconds, main gauche in hand and wild in the eyes; Athos is so well bred, always so controlled, but his control is frayed very thin now. Tréville tenses, because whether or not he sanctions the anger, he cannot actually let Athos kill their charge. He grits a warning, but Athos is hissing into the Comte’s face and pays him no attention. _‘Athos_ ,’ he repeats, louder, and there's a brief, charged silence.

 ‘Step outside, Monsieur,’ Athos says eventually, so very level and calm. ‘You may continue your discussion with the captain outside.’

The Comte looks uncertain but a breath later he puffs up his chest like a cock and splutters indignantly. ‘You will not speak to me like that!’

 Athos doesn’t seem to move at all, but the threat in every line of his posture becomes somehow even more pronounced, and the Comte does start to quail. On the floor, Aramis shifts anxiously again.

 ‘What’s wrong?’ he mumbles.

 Porthos hunches around him protectively. ‘Nothing. Athos is making friends.’ Aramis makes a huffing noise that might be a laugh, but the skin around his eyes is tight and the line of his mouth is strained.

 ‘Captain, a word,’ the Comte chokes out, his imperious tone significantly weakened, and he steps out of the carriage at last, his wife and mother peering anxiously after him as Tréville steps back to let him exit. Athos, still on his feet, glares at him intently every inch of the way, and makes a show of re-sheathing his main gauche very slowly. 

-/-

Somehow, Tréville gets the Comte on a horse and riding silent and furious at the front of the column. Athos doesn’t care how he does it, so long as he doesn’t have to look at the man again.

Aramis is out. The bleeding is slowing but reluctant to stop, and Athos sits grim faced on the floor of the rocking, jolting carriage, pointedly ignoring the two ladies sitting on the seat opposite and keeping both hands firm on the bandage. He can feel Aramis’ muscles quivering, the strain in them evident though he gives every impression of being unconscious. Porthos is holding onto him tightly by both shoulders as if he might be threatening to escape, even though he hasn’t moved at all in the last half hour.

Porthos just stares blankly at the side of the carriage and seems completely unaware of how tightly he’s still holding Aramis. Athos knows he’s torturing himself with recriminations, knows he’s drowning in fear and knows that he himself should be able to say something to reassure him, but hasn’t a clue _what_ to say. Doesn’t know where to start. Aramis would know, but Aramis isn’t saying anything.

They do reach an inn, eventually. Villages clump together along the road as it gets closer to the port, and there are easily enough travellers passing through to support any number of inns, taverns and so on. Many of them, the musketeers know from experience, are miserable establishments, but almost anything at this point would be an improvement. The first place they come to is scarcely a village at all, just a tumbledown inn on the side of the road and a few hunched cottages. Tréville knocks apologetically on the side of the carriage and Athos opens the shutter. 

‘How is he?’ the captain asks, offering a cursory nod to the Comtesse and Dowager Comtesse before his eyes flick back to Aramis.

‘No change,’ Athos grunts, once it is clear that Porthos is not going to speak.

It’s only mid-afternoon, and in any case the Comte is not willing to stop for the night in such a place, so the convoy is to go on without them. Athos helps Porthos to gather Aramis’ slack limbs to himself and Tréville holds the door for them, eyebrows drawn together in concern. They make for the inn and don’t look back. It’s only later that Athos hears about how two other musketeers had to sluice blood off the mahogany floor of the carriage before the Comte was willing to ride on.

The taproom is empty and none too clean. Few travellers are fool enough to make this trip in such a downpour. Athos knocks loudly and impatiently on the bar until an elderly woman sticks her head into the room and looks positively terrified to find musketeers standing in her inn, casting a shocked look at Porthos holding Aramis crumpled against his chest before she addresses Athos. 

‘Monsieur? You need-‘

‘A room,’ Athos says sharply. ‘Also water and clean cloth, a needle and thread. And wine, or spirits if you have any.’ 

She looks nervously between them again. ‘Of – of course. You are… is there trouble on the road, Monsieur?’

‘We are of the King’s Musketeers,’ he explains, and her eyebrows shoot up, but she does relax slightly. On this road, three men armed to the teeth would often be a bad omen in an establishment like this. Impatience overrides understanding and he clears his throat pointedly. ‘The room, Madame. As you see, our friend requires aid.’

She rushes to obey. They struggle on the narrow stairs, awkward shape of them with Aramis’ limbs trailing, spilling limply out of Porthos’ grip. Between them, they get him into a narrow bed. The room at least is clean and dry, and they can strip his wet clothes at last. Athos stitches the wound, swearing as his fingers repeatedly lose purchase on the needle slippery with blood, and Aramis doesn’t so much as murmur an instruction or, more likely, unhelpful commentary on his progress. He’d settle for that. He’d listen to the damn fool flirt shamelessly at the aged landlady, if only he’d show some sign of life.

The wound is cleaned and, once stitched, it does finally stop bleeding. They build up the fire and drape blankets over Aramis, and Porthos coaxes him to swallow a few sips of water, but he doesn’t wake. There is nothing to do but wait and watch him, and the silence swells suffocating in the small room against the sound of the rain outside.

‘He’ll be alright,’ Athos says, and his voice sounds thin and feeble but still too loud. He shrugs awkwardly at Porthos. ‘He’s always alright.’ 

Porthos grunts, staring darkly at his own hands. Athos waits, takes a swig of the brandy they’ve been using to douse the wound, waits some more.

‘Shouldn’t’ve happened,’ Porthos croaks at last.

Athos frowns, blinks, can’t think of anything to say.

‘He fucking _jumped_ … sometimes I think –‘

There’s a pause, it stretches so long that Athos wonders if Porthos has forgotten he had been speaking aloud.

‘You think he’s got a death wish?’ he says suddenly, unexpected.

‘Death wish?’ Athos parrots blankly.

Porthos goes back to glaring at his own hands. ‘After Savoy. Ever since. He’s been… he does shit like that like it doesn’t even occur to him it might get him killed. But I remember… what he was like just after. Some of the things he’d say when he was asleep, or feverish. He felt bad for being the only one who came back that time, and then he does shit like that, like…’

Athos remembers what he was like, too, with painful clarity. And Aramis _is_ reckless, always was, in fact, as long as he’s known him.

‘He’s not suicidal,’ Athos says, as firmly as he can manage, and knows this to be true. Aramis lives like he’s in a hurry to try everything and meet everyone and is not subtle enough to disguise that kind of bone-deep melancholy: Athos knows exactly how much energy it takes to appear merely bad-tempered when the soul is black with self-loathing underneath, and nobody, least of all Aramis, could seem so brim-full of the joys of life with a monster like that sitting in his chest.

‘No,’ Porthos mumbles. ‘Not like that…’

 ‘It was an ambush. We were outnumbered. Even the best of us can be caught out, in such circumstances.’

‘ _I_ was caught out. He was the other side, and should have been fine, and he might even have been able to take one out with a shot and I might’ve been alright, and instead he just – straight in, like it’s nothing, and he doesn’t _care_ what happens…’

He lapses into silence and looks down at Aramis, whose eyes stay inscrutably closed.  

Athos watches them quietly, trying to think of something reassuring to say. It really would help if Aramis could open his damned eyes and participate in a discussion Athos is clearly not equipped for. 

‘Do you mean to say that you would not have intervened, had he been the one caught out?’ Athos says slowly, knowing that it’s an unfair question. Porthos is silent for a moment and then grunts.

‘He just doesn’t _think_ ,’ he mumbles, glaring at his own hands. 

‘No,’ Athos agrees. ‘Not in those circumstances. He doesn’t think at all.’

 

 

***

 

 

Porthos squints at the darkening sky and takes a thoughtful drink of wine. ‘That was it really. The Captain and the others got that bastard to his ship; we had a few days’ peace in the inn until Aramis started feeling better.’

Aramis beams at him, leaning back against a pillar with his boots propped on the table. 

‘He was alright?’ Constance says, and then winces when she realises what a stupid question that is. ‘Obviously,’ she reprimands herself under her breath, and Aramis winks at her. 

‘Was there any trouble from that Comte?’ asks d’Artagnan. 

Porthos shrugs and defers to Athos. ‘He was a thorn in the Captain’s side for a while. Apparently he wrote a lot of letters to the Cardinal proposing that I should be court-martialled, or that one of us should pay to replace the carriage or to have the blood stains removed from his wife’s dress.’

‘You’re not serious?’ d’Artagnan gapes, and Athos’ expression doesn’t change, so neither he nor Constance is any the wiser.

‘Eventually the king got wind of the matter and fortunately he was feeling well-disposed to musketeers that week.’ Athos drains his glass and looks contemplatively at the dregs before concluding. ‘That Comte hasn’t been invited back to court since, to my knowledge.’

‘Which, given the many appealing qualities of his wife, is rather a shame,’ says Aramis, and someone kicks him under the table.

 

 


End file.
